Stillness
by LongListofStarbucksLovers15
Summary: Sometimes in the middle of this crazy, chaotic, confused world, we find someone who takes all of that away. We find someone who helps make everything seem a little less crazy, a little less chaotic, and a little less confusing. In them, we find a stillness.
1. Holden Had A Point, Didn't He?

**Chapter 1: Holden Had a Point, Didn't He?**

Dinosaurs. Fucking dinosaurs. Why did it seem like so many people found them so freaking interesting? Not _cool_, per se. Just interesting. The things lived millions of years ago, for God's sake. How could they possibly _still_ be relevant? How could _anything_ from history still be relevant? What's in the past should stay in the past, it really should be that simple. Get over it and move on.

Santana heaved a heavy sigh and turned around from the exhibit depicting a skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex with a roll of her eyes. Straight across from the display was another one; this one portrayed (you guessed it!) even more dinosaurs—a much smaller, seemingly more agile species than the monster Santana had just observed. _Not any better_, she thought to herself.

Why was she here, alone at the museum, again? Oh, that's right: because her long-time girlfriend had ditched Santana for some guy. Some guy who they had known since high school; meaning that Santana knew just how annoying and immature he was. So _of course_ it made sense to Santana to torture herself by walking around Brittany's favorite place in the world. When they were dating, Santana and Brittany would visit the American Museum of Natural History three times a year, and no matter when they went Brittany always acted like it was her first experience with the place. When they were still in high school and living in Lima, Ohio, they would take a train to New York City simply for the purpose of visiting the museum, so once the girls moved to the city just a few months after graduation, it became much more convenient.

Santana loved to see how excited Brittany would get as soon as they walked into the building; Brittany's piercing blue eyes would light up and she'd grin from ear to ear before dragging Santana towards the dinosaur displays—her favorite part of the museum. Brittany went to the museum to look at all of the models and statues and lifelike replicas of history, even if she didn't fully comprehend them, whereas Santana only went to see how happy the place made her girlfriend.

Until now, that is. Now, Santana was left alone to wander around the halls and floors of the museum. It felt different without Brittany. Sure, Santana was able to take in a great deal more of the information because she was by herself; Brittany had always talked her ear off about one thing or another so Santana had never really had a good chance to actually _read_ the little educational plaques and placards surrounding all of the exhibits. But Santana didn't exactly care about those. She had taken history all throughout high school; she knew everything she needed, or rather _wanted_, to know about the Civil War and the Great Depression.

Except, now that she was provided with the opportunity to read all of the information, Santana realized just how much she had missed out when she had come with Brittany. And yet, it still didn't change her mind on the matter: history was still irrelevant in the world, and people should just let it go. Focus on today, focus on tomorrow.

Santana narrowed her eyes as she tried to make out the display of the smaller dinosaurs in front of her. Their skeletons seemed to be depicting a fight between the two creatures. She glanced at the information placard: "Velociraptors" it read. It held no significance with Santana; she vaguely remembered Brittany always going on about how she thought they probably would have been cute animals had they still been around.

"You know," a gentle, husky voice from behind Santana began, and it pulled her out of her daydreams, "some people think those things had feathers when they were alive."

Santana turned around slowly to appraise whoever the voice belonged to and felt her breath catch in her throat almost instantaneously: a tall, slender girl stood staring at Santana with a trace of a smile on her lips. Her blonde hair was pin-straight and fell to just below her shoulders. She wore a simple white sun dress with a red, button-up sweater over it, and she looked to be around Santana's age. But Santana hardly even acknowledged those features of the girl. She was captivated by her eyes: they were an impossible shade of smoldering hazel, and Santana could see the golden specks in them even from a few feet away. They sparkled brightly, but they seemed to hold a depth in them, as if they contained a whole other world or universe.

The girl's intense gaze made Santana wriggle self-consciously and she then realized the blonde had made a comment about the dinosaurs. _Stupid, fucking dinosaurs._

"Oh?" Santana managed to finally rasp. It was lame, and she knew it, but it was all Santana could get out of her mouth. The hazel eyes were doing some heavy damage to her thoughts.

The girl nodded and took a few steps forward so she was standing next to Santana. Her eyes drifted to the exhibit, and Santana turned her own head slightly to look at the blonde. Their shoulders were mere inches from each other and Santana kept her body facing in the opposite direction as the girl started again.

"Yes. _Jurassic Park_ didn't exactly do them justice. Have you seen the movie?" she asked, her eyes flicking to Santana's face. When Santana nodded in response, the girl continued, "The Velociraptors were modeled after a much larger species of dinosaur in the film—that's why they were six feet tall. And they actually didn't even live in North America either. They inhabited what we now know as Mongolia."

"Are you some sort of dinosaur enthusiast?" Santana asked, and she was only half joking. The blonde seemed to really know her stuff.

A wide grin graced the girl's face. "No," she answered as she shook her head, "I just like to read."

"About dinosaurs?" Santana quipped. She pivoted on her heel to face the blonde with a small smile. Now that they were face to face, Santana got an up-close look at the girl: she was an inch or two taller than Santana and had a sharp jawline, and prominent cheekbones; her skin was pale and smooth, and Santana couldn't find an imperfection anywhere. Only one word floated through Santana's mind as she observed her: _Gorgeous. _She tried to push the thought away, but to no avail.

"About a lot of things," the blonde responded simply, eyes twinkling.

"That's kind of vague," Santana told the girl.

She gave a shrug of her shoulders. "It just leaves a lot up to the imagination."

Santana raised her eyebrows. "And do you make it a habit of yours to approach strangers walking around the museum?"

"Only ones who seem like they're lost." The girl quirked an eyebrow at Santana and abruptly began to stride off in the direction of the "Animals of the Rainforest" gallery.

Santana jumped into action a second later, quickly following after her while the irrational desire to set the girl straight surged through her. "Excuse me, I am not lost. I've been to this place hundreds of times."

The blonde twirled around so swiftly Santana almost ran into her, but stopped short just in time.

"I didn't mean lost in the museum," she said. "I was referring to being lost in life."

"Exactly what makes you so sure I'm lost in life?" Santana inquired.

"Oh, I'm not _sure _about anything," the blonde answered, "which is why I said I only approach people who _seem _to be lost."

"Fine, whatever," Santana dismissed quickly, "what made it seem like I'm lost?"

_Was it that obvious?_

"I passed you earlier today and you had this vacant look in your eyes," the girl responded. "Like you weren't one hundred percent certain why you decided to come here. Like this place holds a lot of memories for you and you weren't sure if you wanted to revisit them." She paused for a second. "Is that accurate in any way?"

Santana opened her mouth to reply, but the words got lost somewhere. _Yes, that is accurate. It is spot-on accurate._

"You got all of that just from my eyes?" Santana asked eventually, disbelievingly.

"The eyes are the windows to the soul," the blonde told Santana with a smile.

"Very original," Santana said sarcastically as she rolled her eyes.

"So I was right?"

Santana shrugged noncommittally but gave no overt confirmation. The blonde seemed to pick up on her correctness, though, because she went on.

"Do you want to talk about?" she asked.

Santana tilted her head in confusion. "Why would I want to talk about it with you? I don't even know you."

The blonde nodded her head as if she had expected Santana's response. "When was the last time you had a conversation with a stranger?"

"Never."

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

"I'm not telling you my life story."

"I didn't ask for your life story, did I?" the girl countered. "I asked if you wanted to talk about why you're at the museum alone."

"That doesn't excuse the fact I don't even know-"

"Do you know what the best thing about talking to a stranger is?" the blonde cut Santana off. "They don't know enough about you to judge you. They are an unbiased party who will tell you like it is because they can't do anything else."

"Talking to strangers about random, trivial things is borderline weird. Talking to complete strangers about life problems? That's just plain absurd," Santana retorted. She crossed her arms and raised a challenging eyebrow directed at the blonde girl, who extended her hand towards Santana.

"I'm Quinn."

Santana considered her a second longer before shaking her hand, trying to ignore how soft the girl's skin felt against her own—something she greatly failed at. "Santana," she said with a nod.

"Okay, Santana, now that we are on a first-name basis, I don't think we can call ourselves 'complete strangers' anymore," Quinn replied happily, eliciting a small, humorless laugh from Santana.

"If you think that's going to prompt me to pour my heart and soul out to you, you're very much mistaken, Barbie," Santana sneered. She expected the girl, _Quinn_, to flinch or recoil at the use of a mocking nickname, but she didn't even acknowledge it.

"Alright, it was just an offer," Quinn said, putting her hands up in surrender. "I respect your reservations. It was nice meeting you Santana, and I hope you find your way back from wherever you're lost." She turned around again and began walking away from Santana.

"Wait, that's it?" The words tumbled out of Santana's mouth before she even realized it. _She was leaving, you idiot, why didn't you just let her keep walking?_

Quinn stopped in her tracks and looked over her shoulder at Santana. "What are you talking about? Of course that's it. You explicitly just told me you don't want to talk. Like I said, I respect that, but I'm not going to wait around for you."

"My girlfriend of three years dumped me for some guy we've been sort of friends with since high school."

Again, Santana had no idea how the words found their way out of her mouth. She didn't want to talk to Quinn—some girl she didn't even know—about Brittany. About anything, really. Yet here she was, having just admitted to the blonde her heartbreak. There was something—something unidentifiable—about Quinn that prompted Santana to talk to her, not caring that it went against Santana's nature. It sent Santana's thoughts into a blur of haze and confusion, even after only a few minutes.

Quinn spun around slowly and walked back towards Santana, halting a few feet in front of her. "I'm sorry," she murmured quietly; it was simple, but Santana could tell the words were genuine.

"Yeah, well," Santana responded as she shrugged it off.

"Why does that bring you to the museum, though? Of all places?" Quinn inquired. "If you don't mind me asking."

Santana stared at her fixedly; the hazel eyes were blazing with something she couldn't quite distinguish, but they also sent a wave of calmness over Santana's body. She couldn't explain it, but Quinn seemed to be looking directly into Santana's mind.

"Umm," Santana began while she collected her thoughts, "I'm not sure, to be totally honest. This was her favorite place. I guess I just thought it would…" She let the rest hang in midair, not exactly knowing how to finish.

"Take you away from reality for a little bit?" Quinn suggested. "Like touching and looking at things she once touched and looked at would bring back an echo of her and make everything okay, even if it's just for a little while?"

"How did you even know that?" Santana demanded, aghast. It was like Quinn had a front row seat to Santana's thoughts. _Yes_, Santana said to herself, _that's exactly what I thought would happen. I just couldn't put it into words like you_.

"Lucky guess." A small, sad smile played on Quinn's lips.

"Is that why _you're_ here all by yourself? Because you were just dumped by someone?" Santana challenged with, once again, raised eyebrows.

"Not exactly," Quinn replied somewhat hesitantly. Her eyes dipped down to stare at her hands in front of her.

"Then it's your turn to explain." Santana shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and waited for Quinn to say something. The blonde lifted her head to look at Santana.

"The world's a chaotic place."

Santana furrowed her brow in confusion. "How does that result in you coming to a museum by yourself?"

Quinn bit her lip as she thought about her response. "It all moves so quickly out there," she finally said with a sigh. "Everything and everyone, it's all going a million miles an hour. And most of the time I feel like I can't keep up with it. In here, though, nothing changes. Nothing moves. It's still. You don't get it anywhere else, that stillness."

"You do realize, don't you," Santana started, "you essentially just plagiarized _The Catcher in the Rye_?"

A surprised look flitted across Quinn's features before she smiled. "You know your classic American Literature, I'm impressed."

"I try," Santana boasted, smirking.

"Well," Quinn continued, "J.D. Salinger is my favorite. Holden had a point, didn't he? I had never looked at museums like he did until I read the book. And now that I have, I completely understand what he meant. It's nice. It's comforting."

"A stillness," Santana repeated Quinn's word quietly. She liked the concept: discovering a place that seemingly put the world on hold. A place that could remove you from reality for a short amount of time.

"Yeah, not such a bad thought once you really consider it, is it?" Quinn teased.

"Alright," Santana yielded, "I have to admit, you have a point. _Holden _has a point. I like the idea."

"Exactly," Quinn agreed. "And as I said, the museum is the only place I've been able to find the stillness, so I come often."

Santana nodded in understanding. "Do you think more places like it even exist?"

Quinn inclined her head to the side in thought. "I hope so. It would be kind of disappointing if the museum is the only place where true tranquility exists."

"Let me know if and when you find anything like it, will you?" Santana asked, smiling slightly.

"I can do that," Quinn said in affirmation.

A silence fell between the two girls, neither one knowing whether to continue the conversation or to say goodbye.

"So," Quinn eventually started again, drawing out the word.

"Yeah, so…" Santana replied with a nod.

"I guess I'll let you get back to your reminiscing and your alone time," Quinn said.

"What else can you tell me about dinosaurs?" Santana asked suddenly. She didn't know why, but Santana wasn't quite ready for Quinn to leave just yet. Maybe it had something to do with how easy it appeared to be to talk the girl; or maybe it had something to do with the blazing hazel eyes that made it difficult for Santana to think, while also making her heart ache a little bit less.

_What the hell?_ Santana thought as she came across the realization. She had arrived at the museum with a gaping hole in her heart—something she didn't think would ever be repaired. Not for a long while, anyway. But now, after only a few minute conversation with a girl she didn't even know, the aching throb in Santana's chest had dulled a considerable amount. _How the fuck did she do that?_

"Not much, to be truthful," Quinn admitted in response to Santana's question. "I can, however," she went on with a small smile, "tell you a great deal about both World Wars and the land mammals of North America."

Santana grinned. "That's actually much more my speed. Show me what you got."

It was that simple; they fell in step with one another, aimlessly meandering through the museum and all of its displays and exhibits. Quinn provided Santana with random, fun trivia about whatever they were looking at, and Santana listened interestedly—at first, that is. After a little while, Santana found herself focusing not so much on _what_ Quinn was saying as much as _how _she was saying it. Quinn's voice was deep, soft, and warm and it seemed like it caressed the words it formed. It sent ripples of calmness and tingles Santana, for what reason she had no clue.

_Can you be attracted to someone's voice?_ Santana wondered internally. _Because I think I'm headed down that road._

With Quinn at her side, Santana hadn't felt so peaceful and relaxed in the month that had passed since Brittany broke up with her. The conversation was amicable and flowing, and Santana didn't feel the need to be something she wasn't. _Maybe Quinn was right; maybe talking to a stranger can be a good idea from time to time._

Two hours later, when the girls had seen every last display the museum had to offer, they found themselves back at the main lobby. Santana turned to face Quinn, fully intending to compliment her on the wide spectrum of knowledge she possessed—because, seriously, the girl had an impressive mind—when a tall man with a buzz cut, wearing a suit complete with prim and polished shoes, approached them. He inserted himself between Santana and Quinn, and bent over the say something to the blonde. If he was trying to be secretive, he didn't do such a hot job, as Santana heard every word he said.

"Miss Fabray, your father just called," the big guy murmured, "he requested that you be home within the next hour."

"Thank you, Rob, I'll be on my way shortly," Quinn returned after sighing heavily. Her voice had a sudden edge to it, as if she was irritated about something.

The well-dressed man—Rob—nodded in acknowledgement and left Santana and Quinn, the former gawking at the girl standing in front of her. At the mention of Quinn's last name, Santana felt like she had been shocked repeatedly.

"Is everything okay?" Quinn asked as she took in Santana's stunned and confused expression.

"Your last name is Fabray," Santana stated, somewhat in awe.

"That's correct," Quinn answered. She didn't seem to comprehend what Santana was so surprised about.

"Were you ever going to tell me that little tidbit about yourself?"

"I didn't really view it as necessary at the moment, so no," Quinn told Santana.

"Your dad is the governor of New York," Santana said matter-of-factly, and Quinn finally understood the girl's astonishment, but didn't seem to care very much.

"Yep," the blonde deadpanned in an indifferent tone. Santana's jaw dropped at the nonchalance in Quinn's voice.

"He's running for Congress," Santana continued. Everyone in the state knew who Russell Fabray was; his Republican and conservative views were nothing new to the people, and Santana had seen him countless times on the television, addressing one public issue or another. She was aware of Russell Fabray's claim that he was a family man, but Santana could only recall hearing about and seeing one daughter of his—a daughter who most certainly wasn't Quinn, because Santana was absolutely positive she would have remembered Quinn's intense eyes.

"Yep," Quinn repeated.

"And you didn't feel it was necessary to tell me this?" Santana inquired.

"Why would I? Look around," Quinn said, gesturing around the lobby, "do you see my father? No, you do not. Therefore, I didn't deem it necessary to tell you who my father is or what he does."

"But he's…I mean, you're…" Santana stammered, unable to string a comprehensible thought together.

"I am the daughter of the current governor of New York, who just so happens to be running for Congress in the upcoming election," Quinn supplied helpfully, grinning at Santana.

Santana tilted her head to the side, gazing steadily at Quinn. She didn't exactly know how to make what she was thinking sound polite. "I didn't know you…I've never seen…" she stumbled over her words again.

"You didn't know I exist?" Quinn interjected with her brilliant smile still in place.

"Yeah," Santana said lamely and Quinn nodded in understanding.

"That's because my wonderful father has done everything in his power to keep me out of the spotlight," Quinn informed her; Santana got the distinct impression Russell Fabray wasn't the ideal conversation topic for his daughter.

"But why would he do that?" Santana asked. "He's always going on about how he's a family man, and how family means more than anything to him."

Quinn scoffed before replying. "My father 'goes on' about a lot of things. Sure, he has a family; but that does not mean he values it above anything else."

"I'm getting the impression your dad isn't your favorite person," Santana told Quinn with a half-smile.

Quinn paused a moment and bit her lip. "Is this your attempt at getting _me_ to pour my heart and soul out to _you_?"

"What? No!" Santana exclaimed through a laugh. "I don't know, I just would've guessed you had a really good life, what with your father being who he is and all." Something that resembled distress or pain flickered on Quinn's face, and Santana immediately regretting what she said. "Shit, I'm sorry, that didn't come out how I meant it to." _You idiot, how did you mean it, then?_

Quinn shook her head quickly. "No, it's okay. I totally get it. You're right, my dad isn't my favorite person. He's the farthest thing from my favorite person, actually."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Santana's smiled as she echoed Quinn's words from earlier.

"'Talking to strangers about random, trivial things is borderline weird. Talking to complete strangers about life problems? That's just plain absurd,'" Quinn also reiterated words already said.

"Hey, you can't keep everything bottled up forever, you know," Santana said to her seriously.

"Oh, is that so?" Quinn asked with a raised eyebrow.

"It's very so. 'I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind,'" Santana recited. "Do you want that happening to you?"

Quinn nodded her head, impressed. "Edgar Allan Poe—very nice touch."

"Ah, I see you can identify classic American authors just as well as you can quote them," Santana teased lightly.

"I do what I can," Quinn said, shrugging her shoulders and grinning.

"Seriously, though, do you want to talk about it? I wouldn't mind listening," Santana told her. And she wouldn't—mind listening, that is. It was easy talking to Quinn, and the two girls clearly shared a couple of similarities: a love for literature, viewing the museum as somewhat of a sanctuary of sorts. _Maybe this particular stranger is worth getting to know_, Santana thought to herself.

"I appreciate your offer, but I really don't want to dump all my problems on you," Quinn answered.

"I don't mind, really," Santana insisted.

"You're very persistent," Quinn observed with a giggle, and as she heard it Santana felt her heartrate speed up. It was a sweet sound—breathy, and melodic like wind chimes—and Santana's mind instantly fogged up.

She took a moment to form a coherent thought before responding. "Umm, yes, I am. But I also know what it's like to have a lot on your mind. Stuff kind of just builds up in there and you don't know what to do with it."

"Does talking help solve that problem?" Quinn asked.

"I'm not sure," Santana confessed. "I've heard it does, though. Weren't you the one who asked if I wanted to talk about my feelings first?"

"You seemed like you needed someone to listen to you," Quinn said softly, and Santana was way past wondering how the hell Quinn could pick up on such little, intricate details about someone she didn't even know.

"I guess I did. I do," Santana told her honestly.

"You didn't say very much on the matter."

Santana wanted to steer the conversation away from her own problems at the moment, so she went in another direction. "You've never discussed what's going on in your mind with someone else?"

"There's a lot going on in my mind," Quinn replied swiftly. She appeared to have been prepared for Santana's abrupt subject change.

"So?" Santana countered.

"So, how many people actually want to know what's going on in your head? Most people just ask because it's common courtesy to do so."

Santana had to admit Quinn had a point: not many people care to hear the truth about what's truly swimming through your thoughts. The standard answer to "How are you?" is "Fine" because no one expects you to say how you're _really _feeling.

"Okay, well, what if I told you _I _was genuinely interested in what's going on in your mind?" Santana asked.

A small smile formed on Quinn's lips. "I think I would probably tell you."

_Okay, she's definitely flirting, right? This whole day she's been flirting…I mean, I think so at least. Oh God, what if she hasn't been flirting? What if I've completely misread everything we've said to each other? Pull yourself together, Lopez, goddamit. Even if she _isn't _flirting, who cares? She's not that great…is she?_

"And why's that?" Santana smiled in return as she attempted to ignore the numerous questions racing through her mind.

"Because, clearly, you've never talked to someone about your thoughts and feelings either."

"So, what? Your thought is that we'd experience it for the first time together?"

"Exactly."

"I don't think discussing thoughts and feelings is exactly something people consider a momentous 'first-time' event," Santana reminded her, even though she was already completely on board with the idea.

"Do you follow everything other people do?" Quinn remarked, smiling broadly now.

"No, I was merely stating a fact," Santana defended.

"Alright, just checking," Quinn said with another chuckle.

"I am genuinely interested in what's going on in your mind," Santana stated suddenly. It was the truth, though; the one, mysterious quality in Quinn struck once again, making Santana want to talk for hours and hours with the girl. She was incredibly sweet, clearly very intelligent, and by no means hard on the eyes—these were the only thoughts moving through Santana's head as she waited for an answer.

Quinn stared back at Santana with eyes that made her feel like she was the only one in the area; like the only thing Quinn could see was Santana.

"The only thing wrong here is, you're assuming I _want_ to tell you what's going on in my mind," Quinn responded.

"Oh," Santana said dejectedly, and she was slightly taken aback at Quinn's response; it wasn't what she had been expecting. "Well, I guess if you don't want to-" Santana stopped when she saw Quinn laughing. "What's so funny?" she demanded.

Quinn composed herself enough to give a reply. "What happened to being so persistent? I didn't peg you for someone who'd give up so easily."

"You don't know me," Santana muttered, looking down at her feet, but she had felt her heart jump excitedly at Quinn's words.

"No, I don't," Quinn agreed. "I'd like to, though."

_Okay, _definitely _flirting. Thank God Almighty, because damn is this girl good looking and smart and funny_.

"Really?"

"Really, really," Quinn said, nodding. "In case you couldn't have guessed, I _don't_ normally approach strangers in the museum, but I just really felt the need to today."

"And how does that make you feel now?" Santana asked interestedly, smiling widely.

"Better than I could ever have imagined."

"Man, you're pretty smooth for the daughter of a governor," Santana joked.

"What can I say? It's a gift," Quinn answered.

Santana's confidence, which had wavered somewhat since she started talking with Quinn a couple hours ago, finally made its reappearance. "Well, _smooth-talker_, New York's a pretty big city, and I don't feel like waiting for God knows how long until we run into each other again, so why don't you do me the favor of putting your number in my phone?" She reached into her back pocket and produced it, offering the phone to the blonde.

Quinn grabbed it with a grin. "Aren't you quite the charmer?" She began tapping on the screen, adding her contact information.

"It's a gift," Santana used the girl's own words against her as she took the phone back from Quinn.

"Are you actually going to call?" Quinn asked, still smiling. "Or are you just going to pretend this entire day never happened?"

"We'll see how I feel in the next few days," Santana told her with a wink.

"Ah, if it's even possible you just got even _more_ charming."

"It's definitely possible," Santana said as she nodded.

"Well, if there's even the slightest chance we're going to get to know each other better, don't you think it would be appropriate for me to know your last name?" Quinn inquired.

Santana narrowed her eyes as she thought about it. "Lopez."

"Santana Lopez," Quinn said, as if trying to see what it sounded like when said out loud, and Santana tried to ignore how much she liked hearing Quinn say her name. "I like it."

"Thanks, my mom gave it to me," Santana responded instinctively, but slapped herself on the forehead when she realized how lame and cliché it sounded. "Wow, I'm sorry. That was an awful joke."

"I thought it was cute," Quinn told her through a small fit of giggles, and Santana's pulse quickened again at Quinn's casual word choice.

"Thanks," she murmured sheepishly.

"Okay, I'm sorry to cut this whole thing short, but I do really have to go now. My dad will be pissed if I'm late. Actually, he's always pissed off about something. I just don't want to push him any farther," Quinn said with a smile.

"That's very understandable," Santana replied, nodding earnestly.

"So…I'll see you around?" Quinn asked, seemingly a bit hesitant.

Santana grinned. "I'd say that's likely."

Quinn's smile turned into a grin of her own before she nodded and turned around to leave the museum. She was just about to push through the revolving door when Santana stopped her by calling out her name; Quinn halted and looked over her shoulder at Santana, a questioning eyebrow raised.

"Thanks for taking a chance on a stranger."

Quinn's grin got impossibly bigger. "Trust me, the pleasure was all mine." And then she was gone.

* * *

To be honest, I'm not really sure how to feel about this story. This chapter has been circulating my mind for quite a while now, and I thought I'd just give it a try. Please let me know what you think/if I should continue, etc.!


	2. Did You Just Go All Albert Camus On Me?

Wow, the response to just the first chapter was so overwhelming! I appreciate everything, and have, of course, decided to continue this story! Thank you for all the comments, follows, and favorites :) Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 2: Did You Just Go All Albert Camus On Me?**

"You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"How old are you?"

Quinn narrowed her eyes at the random question. "Nineteen. Why, how old are you?"

"Nineteen," Santana told her with an approving nod.

"Great, now that we've established we have walked the earth for the same amount of years, what does it have to do with today?" Quinn asked.

"Do you _see _where we are?" Santana retorted, throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation. To stress her point she jabbed a finger at the large sign overhead: WELCOME TO THE BRONX ZOO.

"I'm well aware of where we are, Santana, seeing as _I _was the one to text _you _the address," Quinn said in a patronizing tone.

"You had me take the subway to _the Bronx_ just so we could visit the zoo?" Santana exclaimed. "Which, by the way, is where our age comes into play: nineteen year olds don't go to the zoo."

"Says who?" Quinn challenged.

Santana rolled her eyes. "Says practically everyone else in the world."

"Last week at the museum you told me you don't follow everything everyone else does," Quinn reminded her with a hint of a smile.

"I don't! But…but…" Santana had a hard time formulating her words, fully aware of how accurate Quinn's statement was.

"But what?"

"This is so not what I signed up for when I called you the other day," Santana muttered under her breath, eliciting a giggle and a million-watt smile from Quinn.

Santana had controlled herself for a total of sixteen hours before she called Quinn after parting ways at the museum. She hadn't wanted to seem _too _eager, but at the same time, Santana could hardly neglect how easy and comfortable it had been with Quinn. She had no idea what they were doing in terms of defining a friendship or a romantic relationship—_She's probably not even gay. I mean, she's the daughter of the fucking governor_, Santana kept saying to herself in an attempt to not get her hopes too high—but for once in her life Santana didn't question it. If talking and being with Quinn was so obviously simple after only a few hours together, Santana could only imagine the possibilities of what could come of exploring their relationship.

So, she waited almost an entire, torturous day to call Quinn. The blonde had picked up after the second ring, sending Santana's heartrate skyrocketing with excitement and nerves.

"_'Electric communication will never be a substitute for the face of someone who with their soul encourages another person to be brave and true.' So you better have called me to hang out again, Lopez," Quinn began the conversation, completely disregarding any and all greetings._

_ Santana snorted down the phone at the girl's words, trying to overlook the instant effect Quinn's soft, husky voice had on her. "Nice, who said that?"_

_ "Dickens."_

_ "Ah, of course. Good ole Charles. Do you always sneak quotes from famous authors or pieces of literature into your conversations?"_

_ "Only when it's fitting," Quinn told her. _

_"Alright," Santana allowed, "but how did you even know it was me calling? I was pretty sure you didn't have my number until right about now."_

_"Well, an unknown number calls me only sixteen hours after I gave out my own number to someone—I just took my chances," Quinn answered assuredly, and Santana grinned. _

_"You seem to be very good at taking chances," Santana complimented her._

_"In the past 24 hours, I absolutely am," Quinn agreed. "So? Are you calling because I made a fantastic first impression on you yesterday and you want to hang out again, or what?"_

_ Santana struggled to keep her voice normal and her thoughts in order; they had only been speaking for a minute and a half and Quinn was already managing to make Santana's mind cloud over. "Oh, is _that _what we were doing? I thought you were just being a Good Samaritan and giving me a tour of the museum?"_

_ "Damn," Quinn said, and Santana could hear her breathily chuckling, "you held back on your humorous side yesterday. You're hilarious."_

_ "You bet I am, Fabray," Santana confirmed. "But, in answer to your question, yes, I was calling to see if you possibly wanted to hang out again."_

_ "If I 'possibly' wanted to hang out again?" Quinn repeated. "That doesn't sound very confident." Santana could practically hear the smile in her voice._

_ "Well, I wouldn't want to be presumptuous. It would just make me look bad if I turned out to be wrong," Santana said in a serious tone._

_ "How quick we are to preserve our precious self-pride," Quinn teased._

_ "Yeah, yeah. Let's cut the intellectual crap, why don't we? Do you want to hang out or not?" Santana demanded._

_ "I think you know full well I want to hang out with you," Quinn returned, and Santana felt her heart soar in her chest._

_ "Good answer. What do you want to do and when do you want to do it?" Santana asked as she tried to keep her voice from raising two octaves out of pure excitement._

_ There was a pause on Quinn's end of the line as the girl thought about her answer. After a minute's silence she spoke up. "Do you trust me?"_

Which is how the two girls ended up outside of the entrance to the Bronx Zoo: Quinn had told Santana over the phone she would text her the address of the place she wanted to meet, and within minutes of disconnecting the call Quinn had done as she said she would. She had also informed Santana to dress casually and comfortably. Santana had accepted it without any questions, thinking nothing of it; and she had waited six long and painful days, filling each one with thoughts of Quinn and their interaction at the museum. Saturday—exactly one week since they had met—finally decided to show up, and Santana—abiding Quinn's orders to dress casual and clad in skinny jeans and a plain white t-shirt—followed directions to the address provided by Quinn, realizing only ten minutes before arriving where it was Quinn wanted to meet.

"What did you expect when you called then?" Quinn asked in the present, staring intently at Santana.

"I don't know," Santana huffed. "Getting coffee maybe?"

It was Quinn who rolled her eyes this time. "What's the difference between getting coffee and going to the zoo?"

Santana quirked an eyebrow. "Do you mean _other _than the fact one is a little bit weird for nineteen year olds to be doing?"

"No, but think about it," Quinn insisted. "Who was the first person to wake up one morning and decide getting coffee is going to be a universal thing to do between two people? Out of everything else there is to do in the world? In the grand scheme of things, it's a random activity. So the way I see it, going to the zoo is just as arbitrary."

Santana opened her mouth to respond, but came up short with an answer. After a momentary pause she finally said, "No one thinks like that!"

"_Someone _has to!" Quinn replied earnestly. "Otherwise the entire population would end up getting coffee every time they hung out with someone, and that would just be vapid."

"Vapid? Seriously?" Santana questioned. "Who uses that word in casual conversation?"

"Okay, first you hate on my choice of where to hang out, and then you decide to ridicule my vocabulary? Would you just like for me to leave, Santana?" Quinn asked in a sweet voice, and her hazel eyes sparkled brilliantly.

"No!" Santana answered quickly and reflexively. _Of course I don't want you to leave; the only reason I've made it through this whole week is knowing I would see you at the end of it. _"I'm sorry," she continued. "I just, I don't know, I'm not used to…this." She made an unintelligible motion with her hands.

"Going to the zoo?" Quinn inquired, her face scrunched up in confusion. "Or random vocabulary?"

"The whole…talking thing, actually," Santana confessed as she cast her eyes downwards to stare at her scuffed Converse.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"With my last girlfriend-"

"The one you dated for three years?" Quinn intervened, and Santana nodded in confirmation and brought her gaze back up to meet Quinn's.

"Yes. With her it was mostly…physical."

"Oh," Quinn murmured in understanding.

"Don't get me wrong," Santana continued. "It's not that I didn't _talk _to her; I mean, we dated for three years, obviously we talked. But not about anything…deep. Or complex or important, really. We didn't do or think about 'big schemes' of things, and we didn't discuss our thoughts on the world to any degree. To be honest, I think she was mostly in the relationship for the sex." Santana laughed humorlessly while Quinn tilted her head to the side thoughtfully.

"Okay, well, we are definitely going to the zoo now—whether you like it or not. It'll be therapeutic. Come on," Quinn grabbed Santana's wrist, pulling her towards the front gates, and a searing, satisfying heat shot up Santana's arm at the blonde's touch. As Quinn dragged her forward, Santana got her first good look at the girl from behind since they had met up a short while ago: she wore a blue floral dress, topped off with a long, white sweater on which Quinn had rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. Her blonde hair was tossed into a messy side-ponytail, and Santana realized her limited memories of Quinn from the week before still didn't do the girl justice—she was even more attractive than Santana remembered.

Ten minutes later, once they had waited in line and paid, the two girls stood just inside the zoo, and, much to Santana's dismay, Quinn had dropped her hold on Santana's wrist. _Well_, Santana thought, _now that we're here, might as well make the best of it_. Without glancing back to make sure Quinn followed, Santana strode off down one of the winding concrete paths, having no idea where it would take her. Quinn caught up quickly as she matched Santana's pace beside her.

"Are we going to talk about the giant elephant in the room?" Santana asked suddenly.

"No, because there _aren't _any giant elephants in the room, or anywhere near us for that matter—they're in an exhibit on the other side of the zoo." Quinn shot a shining grin in Santana's direction, and earned herself an eye roll in return.

"You know what I mean," Santana pressed on.

"I don't, though," Quinn told her. "You're going to have to narrow it down a bit."

"Your dad is the governor of New York," Santana stated bluntly.

"You're still on that?" Quinn wondered with slight irritation.

Santana stopped in her tracks, and Quinn followed suit as they turned to face each other.

"Of course I'm still on it," Santana answered. "You can't drop a bomb like that and then expect me to ignore it."

"Technically," Quinn began with a faint smile, "I didn't drop any bomb. You sort of just overheard me being called by my last name. I wasn't even going to tell you about it."

"But that's my point!" Santana exclaimed. "You weren't going to tell me. _Why_?"

"Because I'm not my father!" Quinn said heatedly. "My whole life he has tried to tell me what to do and who to be, and I have _spent _my entire life trying to please him and make him proud. But I have _finally_ reached a point in my life where I don't give a damn what he thinks anymore, and I have _finally_ begun to be my own person. I wasn't going to tell you who I was or what my last name is because I figured you would just assume I'm the same as him—everyone always does. And I'm not the same as him. I swear to God I'm not." Quinn's voice softened at the last remark, and it seemed like she was saying it more to herself than to Santana; like she was desperately trying to internally prove she was different from her father.

Santana was slightly taken aback by Quinn's sudden outburst of anger. She sorted through all of the thoughts swarming her head and settled on the simplest one. "I'm sorry."

Quinn shook her head with a sigh. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I just…"

"I wouldn't have assumed you were just like him," Santana told her quietly, and Quinn lifted an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Oh yeah? You're telling me if I had told you, _from the start_, who I was and who my father is, you would have treated me the same exact way you did?" When Santana simply looked down in response Quinn nodded. "That's what I thought. And it's not even that I couldn't blame you for doing it, because seriously, it happens every time I meet a person. For once, though, I wanted to blaze my own trail, or whatever you want to call it."

"Well," Santana reasoned as she smiled, "if it's any consolation, I think your approach to blazing your own trail was very effective."

"Talking to strangers in the museum is effective?" Quinn asked, and the corners of her lips pulled up into a small smile of her own.

"I'd say it is," Santana affirmed. "Considering here we are, a week later, hanging out and talking again."

"Good to know," Quinn murmured thoughtfully.

They finally started to walk again, and fell into a comfortable silence for the time being. When they reached the Siberian tigers, Santana started quizzing Quinn on everything she knew about the animals, remembering Quinn's extensive knowledge surrounding land mammals of North America from last week at the museum.

"But Siberian tigers aren't even from North America," Quinn pointed out. "Hence the name."

"Technicality," Santana dismissed. "Let's see just how much you know."

From there on out, Santana asked questions about each and every animal they encountered, from the Grizzly bears to the penguins and sea otters; she read the information placards in front of each exhibit, and then put Quinn to the test. And, once again, Quinn proved just how much material her brain could maintain.

"Jesus, Quinn," Santana said after the tenth question in a row Quinn got right, "how the hell do you know all of this stuff?"

"I told you," she returned, "I just read a lot."

"You expect me to believe you read literary classics _and _books about animals, and manage to remember almost every little detail?" Santana asked disbelievingly.

"I don't read books about animals anymore, silly," Quinn explained lightly. "It's not like my parents were around a lot when I was a kid. So, I just read. I read a great deal, actually. It passed the time and gave me something to do."

Santana nodded and slowed down her pace, eventually coming to a complete stop. Quinn walked a few more paces before she realized Santana wasn't with her anymore.

"What's up?" she asked as she wandered back towards Santana.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Last week…you told me your dad has done everything he can to keep you out of the spotlight." Santana tried to gauge a reaction from Quinn, but came up with nothing, so she posed the question that had been bothering her, "Why does he do that?"

Quinn let out a chuckle that held anything but humor. "How much time do you have?"

"I'm serious, Quinn. At the museum we agreed to discuss our thoughts and feelings with another person for the first time, with _each other_. So, let's go, Fabray, start talking," Santana encouraged her with a slight edge to her voice, and Quinn sighed.

"I wasn't kidding when I said he's tried to control me my whole life. Ever since I can remember he's been the one to tell me what to do or what to say; my mom just sits idly by and lets him push everyone around, herself included. I grew up doing everything in my power to make him happy or proud, but nothing seemed to ever satisfy him. He always told me I could do better, I could _be _better."

"Okay…" Santana urged her to go on.

"Things really went to hell when I was sixteen and I got pregnant." Quinn said it casually, as though it wasn't a big deal; but Santana's eyes widened in surprise and her jaw dropped.

"You got…oh," Santana managed to get out.

"Yep," Quinn replied with a smile as she saw Santana's astounded expression. "The only thing that prevented my dad from physically throwing me out of the house was knowing what it would do to his reputation. Not only would he have had a pregnant, teenage daughter, but he also would have been that governor who kicked his _pregnant, teenage_ daughter out of the house when she was in a time of need."

"What happened then?"

"Nothing, really. He kept doing what he had been doing my whole life—keeping me in the shadows and away from the public eye, both during my pregnancy and after I gave my baby up for adoption. I don't think he would ever admit it out loud due to fear of incriminating himself, but my father has never thought I'm good enough for anything or anyone, which is why he does what he does. Me getting pregnant, in his mind, just solidified everything he thought about me, and he uses it as justification for pretending I don't exist."

"Wait," Santana cut in, "He pretends you _don't exist_?"

Quinn nodded solemnly. "Mhmm. For the most part, at least. He keeps tabs on me, of course, because he wants to make sure I'm not getting into any trouble and jeopardizing his reputation or name. God forbid that ever happens. So, yeah about 90% of the time I don't exist to my father."

"Quinn, I'm sorry," Santana said softly, but the girl just shrugged her shoulders.

"I appreciate that, but it's okay. More times than not he's under the influence of alcohol, and I'm used to it by now." Quinn saw Santana's eyes go wide with surprise again and another small smile flitted across her lips. "Yes, Santana, on top of everything else I just told you, my dear father is also an alcoholic."

"But he's the governor…" Santana remarked as she tried to wrap her head around the entire situation.

"And politics are every bit as corrupt as people think they are," Quinn responded. "He's smart about it, his drinking. He doesn't do it whenever he has to make a public appearance or has an important meeting. Every other time, though, you can find him with a full glass of Scotch in his hand."

"Okay," Santana began slowly, "but what I don't get is how he managed to keep your pregnancy a total secret; I mean, no offense Quinn, but that's sort of a big thing to hide."

Quinn nodded that she understood. "Let's see, he started out by pulling me from school for a year after he found out—he told school officials I just 'needed a break from the pressures of modern-day high school.' I'm sure he was overflowing with glee when he told them that, because it made me look weak and inadequate, which is exactly how he sees me. So I was homeschooled as a sophomore, and went back the next year after I had the baby. After that, his plan was pretty simple: pay off anyone and everyone who may have found out I was pregnant."

"Please tell me he didn't go so far as paying off the father of you baby."

Quinn's eyes moved down to stare at her hands. "Umm, I never actually told the father."

"Oh," Santana said, trying to hide yet another wave of shock. Who knew one person could be capable of hiding so much for the world?

"Yeah," Quinn replied through a sigh. "Hooking up with him in the first place was a huge mistake, and honestly, I didn't know how we would take the news. Even if I _had _wanted to tell him, it's not like my own dad would let me. Not telling him was just easier for everyone."

The total authority and command Russell Fabray held over his youngest daughter finally hit Santana like she had run into an unforeseen brick wall.

"Damn, Quinn. I had no idea a parent could be so controlling over their child," Santana told her honestly.

"I'm pretty sure my dad is a one-of-a-kind type of parent," Quinn answered rationally.

"Fine," Santana agreed hastily, "but you _do _have a plan to escape his psycho-tendencies and his freakish control over you, right? You have to be thinking of something."

"There was the idea of college," Quinn admitted, and Santana didn't fail to recognize her use of the past tense.

"_Was_ college?"

"Why am I doing all the talking here?" Quinn asked abruptly, sidestepping the question.

Santana rolled her eyes. "Because right now it's your turn."

"But I will get a chance to interrogate _you_ about _your_ life, won't I?" Quinn countered.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Santana swept aside the request. "Now answer the question."

"Okay, well, at the risk of sounding like a stereotypical, pompous governor's daughter," Quinn said with a wry smile, "I did get accepted to Yale."

Santana nodded, impressed. "Quinn, that's awesome-" She stopped midsentence when she realized they were standing in the middle of the zoo on a Saturday afternoon in March. "Wait," Santana started again, "then why aren't you _at _Yale right now?"

"Because I deferred for a year," Quinn responded matter-of-factly.

"Why the hell would you do a thing like that?" Santana almost shouted.

"The only reason I was going was because my whole family wanted me to study political science. Like my father did at Harvard, and like my sister is currently doing at Princeton. I was finally able to admit that's not what I want—it's _never _what I wanted. Boy, did it piss my parents off when I told them I had called Yale myself to defer."

"You're going to go, though, right? I mean, in a few months' time, you're going to follow through with the whole deferring thing and actually go to Yale?" Santana inquired, and Quinn just shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm not sure. Growing up, all I could think about was graduating and then going off to Yale—it's always been my dream school, regardless of my family's opinions and inputs. But now I don't know," Quinn said truthfully.

"What don't you know?" Santana persisted; she couldn't comprehend how a person could simply just turn down a ticket out of their own personal hell.

"I don't know if I want to go to college," Quinn stated frankly. "I'm all about furthering your education, but I don't think it's for me. I want to…I don't know, travel the world. Experience new things. Learn outside of four walls and a classroom for once. And not even Yale could give me that."

"Shit, Fabray," Santana said as she let out a deep breath. "You've got some nerve."

"Thank you," Quinn responded with a grin.

"How can you talk about this so casually?" Santana asked.

"You're easy to talk to," Quinn said simply. "And this was a good idea, actually—talking about what's going on in our minds. It feels good to let all of this out. A lot of it has been pent up for quite some time now." Santana's heart swelled at Quinn's words and she grinned widely.

"Well, I'm glad I can provide a good sounding board for you," Santana answered. "But I do have one more question."

"Ah, let me guess," Quinn said with a smile. "You're curious about what my mother and sister are doing during all of this, aren't you?"

Santana nodded. "You got it. Care to explain?"

"My sister is the golden child of the Fabray family. She can do no wrong—not that she actually ever _does _anything wrong, but still. She got straight A's all through school, was her class valedictorian, and, as I already mentioned, is now at Princeton majoring in political science. She's a girl after my father's own heart. My dad absolutely _adores_ her, so naturally, she despises me." Quinn paused to laugh coldly. "That being said, she doesn't stick up for me or say anything because she knows it will take her out of daddy dearest's good graces, and for her that would be the end of the world."

"And your mom?"

"My mom," Quinn repeated thoughtfully. "Wow, what can I say about my mom? Oh, I know: my mom drinks to conveniently forget about my dad's drinking. And being dragged around by my father to dinners and brunches with other important figures, being shown off to hundreds of people…yeah, my mom considers those types of things both an honor and a privilege. As long as she gets her time in the spotlight, Judy Fabray is perfectly content."

"Huh," Santana said with a nod, "I now totally understand your search for stillness in the world."

"Precisely," Quinn agreed. "Okay, enough about me. I'm sick of talking. It's my turn to grill you about your story."

Santana smiled and gave a shrug, having known it would eventually lead to this. "Lay it on me, Fabray."

"Are you originally from New York?"

"No," Santana answered with a shake of her head. "Lima, Ohio, actually."

"Ohio?" Quinn reiterated, smiling. "How in the world did you end up in New York City, then?"

"Have you ever been to Ohio? It is the single-most boring state. There's nothing to do, and nothing exciting ever happens. I needed out of there."

"Why New York?" Quinn asked. "I get the appeal and everything, but you could have chosen anywhere, so why here?"

"Actually, I didn't start out here. Unlike you," Santana grinned, "I at least _attempted _college."

"Is that so?" Quinn wondered as her smile turned into a broad grin. "And where did you _attempt _to go to college?"

"Louisville," Santana told her. "I had a full-ride for cheerleading."

"That's incredibly impressive," Quinn said, and Santana felt her heart skip a beat. "What happened?"

"Honestly, I kind of thought along the same lines as you currently are doing. I felt like I was held back there—like I was just wasting my time." Santana shrugged indifferently. "So I decided to do something about it and left. I was only there for, like, a month and a half, but I knew it wasn't going to get any better."

"A girl who takes matters into her own hands," Quinn remarked, nodding, "Very admirable."

"Thank you, thank you," Santana replied. "That's about it, though. I've been in the city for just over a year now."

"And you're happy with your decision to leave Louisville?"

"Definitely," Santana confirmed. "It's the best decision I've made."

"Do you ever miss Ohio?" Quinn asked as she tilted her head to the side.

Santana took a second to mull over the question. "Sometimes," she confessed. "I grew up there, I went to high school there, I had friends there, my parents are _still_ there…it's not as though I can completely ignore the contribution it made to my life. But Lima's a small, sleepy town, and I like to think I move at a quick pace, so it just wasn't a good match."

"Is New York a better fit?" Quinn inquired with sparking eyes.

"Yes," Santana declared. "Don't get me wrong, I'm nowhere near where I want to be in my life; I'm a singing waitress at a diner, for God's sake. However, I do know New York is where I need to be in order to climb the ladder that is success."

"A singing waitress?" Quinn repeated, and she bit her lip to stifle a giggle.

"Don't make fun of me!" Santana exclaimed through a laugh.

"I'm not!" Quinn returned. "I really like it, actually. And I'll have to check it out some time."

"Trust me, you will _not _be disappointed," Santana said with a wink, finding a sudden and fleeting moment of confidence.

"I don't doubt you for a second."

"Are those all the questions you've got?" Santana asked, feigning shock. "I'm surprised, I thought you would be much more inquisitive."

"Ha, ha, you're funny" Quinn replied in a voice that dripped with sarcasm. "I do have more questions. But the one that is currently on my mind has the potential to make things a bit uncomfortable."

"Ask it."

Santana knew where Quinn was headed—it was an inevitability. Under normal circumstances, Santana would keep her mouth shut and not discuss Brittany to anyone; but talking to Quinn was different, as Santana surmised last week at the museum. It was easy and it was simple, and Santana knew that didn't come around very often, so she planned on taking full advantage of it. Besides, Quinn had been so open and honest talking about her family and what she's been through, it was the least Santana could do to return the favor by discussing her newly ex-girlfriend.

"What about your girlfriend?"

"Where to begin?" Santana heaved a sigh. "Well, we started dating sophomore year, though we didn't go public with our relationship until two years later when we were seniors. Some things happened, and Brittany actually got held back—meaning that I graduated and went off to Kentucky, and left her behind. We made it work, though. We called and Skyped on a daily basis, and, in the month and a half I was there, I went home every other weekend. It wasn't ideal, obviously, but it was the best we could do, and we were happy."

"Okay…" Quinn prompted Santana keep talking.

"And then I moved to New York, of course. Other than the fact I was here and not at Louisville, things didn't really change. I went home as often as I could, and we didn't go a day without talking to some extent. Things were still good." Santana paused to collect all of her thoughts. "Brittany eventually graduated, and she came straight to New York. Along with a fuck ton of other people from my high school. When I moved here, there were already a couple people who I had graduated with living here—but only a couple. Once Brittany graduated, though, it was like a herd of McKinley High School alumni migrated to the city; people in my grade came, people in the grade below me…it was like our own little reunion in The City That Never Sleeps, to my disdain.

"But Brittany was here, and that's all that mattered to me. At first, it was great. I mean, it was like total bliss and nothing could go wrong. I don't know, though. After a few weeks I could feel her getting farther and farther away from me, and I had no idea why. There was a random shift in the dynamics of our relationship, and before I knew it, she was in the arms of Sam Evans—a guy who tries to be cool by impersonating the same four people and characters."

The words rolled off of Santana's tongue with ease, and as she stared at Quinn, waiting for the blonde to react, Santana couldn't help but fall in love with the simplicity of the flow of the conversation. _Shit_, she thought, _if this is a foreshadow of where I'm heading when it comes to Quinn, we may have a serious problem_.

"She dumped you just like that?" Quinn asked in surprise. "Did she at least tell you why?"

"All she said was, she found someone who thought the same way as she did and she felt like it was a sign she had to date him. I found out two days later that person was Sam, and it pissed me off even more," Santana explained as she clenched her jaw.

"Santana, I'm sorry," Quinn said gently. "No one deserves to be left hanging like that."

"Well, Brittany sure as hell left me hanging, alright," Santana asserted stiffly. "And she broke my heart in the process."

"Was she the love of your life?" Quinn seem stunned by her own words; she chewed on her bottom lip in a sheepish manner and her gaze was fixed on her feet.

"Umm…" Santana started, unsure of what to say.

"I'm sorry," Quinn quickly interjected. "That wasn't an appropriate question. Forget about it."

But the desire to answer coursed through Santana at top speed; like last week when she had unreasonably needed to explain to Quinn she wasn't lost in the museum, Santana had the irrational need to provide Quinn with a response—even if it turned out to be lame.

"No, it's okay," Santana told her. "Umm, I'm not sure if she was the love of my life. I thought she was; I was completely in love with her, and from the time we started dating, she was always in my picture of the future. But, in retrospect, I guess it wasn't really a realistic thought. Brittany's a great person—she's sweet and caring and so funny, and she doesn't have a mean bone in her body, really. She's also…spacey and has her head in the clouds. It's who she is, and I fell in love with her in spite of it, but now that it's over, and now I've given some actual thought to it, we never were going to last. It was only a matter of time before we broke up. And, here we are."

Quinn cocked her head to the side and she seemed to be thinking about something. "What would you say if I asked you why you and Brittany wouldn't have lasted?"

"I would say," Santana began, sighing, "yes, I loved Brittany. Yes, I was _in love _with her, but she didn't love me. Not completely, anyway. And not in the way people want to be loved. I was blind to it while we were dating, but it's so obvious now that it's all over. What I said earlier, about our relationship being primarily physical? I wasn't exaggerating in the slightest. That was basically the highest point between us; I couldn't talk to her about anything complicated and in depth because she either wouldn't take it seriously or she would go on tangents about unicorns and rainbows."

"Unicorns and rainbows?" Quinn asked confusedly, producing a laugh from Santana.

"Yeah, Brittany is eccentric like that. She thinks the world is a big, beautiful, happy place and she isn't usually realistic about things. And that's great, you know, for _her_. I need someone who can be straightforward with me, and tell me like it is—even if the end result isn't necessarily a positive one. Because the truth is, as that overused cliché goes, I'd much rather be hurt with the truth than comforted with the lie." Santana ended her explanation with another sigh and ran her hands through her hair as Quinn nodded in acknowledgement.

"Okay, I know we are nowhere near close enough for me to push you too far about this," Quinn said hesitantly, "but I do have one more question about the whole situation."

"No, don't worry about it. What is it?"

Quinn began playing with the hem of her sweater, threading it through her hands. "Well, if you're gradually realizing all of this about your relationship, why are you still so hurt by Brittany ending it? I mean, I know you were in love with her, and I totally and completely understand that, but it just seems like all of this stuff should be comforting to you, not driving the knife in your back in deeper."

It was a legitimate question—even Santana could realize that. The realization that she and Brittany weren't going to be forever should have consoled Santana, and eased over the initial pain of the breakup.

"I guess…I guess it's because it means I was wrong. I was wrong for thinking about Brittany always being in my future, and I was wrong for thinking she was the love of my life," Santana tried to explain—mostly to herself. "And if I was wrong about something I was so freaking sure of at the time, I'm worried I'll never realize when what I'm feeling is right or even real." She paused for a moment as she thought about what she had just said. "Does that even make sense? Because there's a part of me that thinks that doesn't make any sense."

Quinn giggled and smiled faintly. "Yes. It makes _perfect_ sense. It's also a very good point."

"How do you do it?" Santana asked suddenly. "How do you wake up every day and go through life with your dad pretending you don't exist and your mom loving being the governor's arm-candy more than standing up for her own daughter? I get dumped and I felt like I was about to unravel, even though, deep down, I've been fine. So how do you do it?"

"'I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world,'" Quinn murmured quietly.

"Did you just go all Albert Camus on me?"

Quinn evaluated Santana with bright eyes for a moment. "I really like that you can pick up on my literary references—no one has been able to do that before."

Santana felt the heat rush to her cheeks at Quinn's sentiment and gave a shrug. "I like to read, too."

"Clearly," Quinn said, grinning. "But yes, to answer your question. I did indeed just channel my inner Existentialist."

"Why do you do that?" Santana wondered aloud. "Why do you always quote famous authors or books?"

"I'll probably never be a world-renowned writer, and authors seem to be able to put my thoughts and feelings into words better than I can, so it just seems logical," Quinn reasoned.

"Okay, why don't you explain the Camus quote, then?" Santana requested.

"Think about it," Quinn told her. "The world literally does not give a damn about anyone. It gives you a broken heart, and me crappy parents, and expects us to be perfectly fine with it all. It couldn't care less if we live to see tomorrow or not, because the world will still go on. Once I realized that—once I _accepted _that—it became much easier."

"But why?" Santana pushed. "Shouldn't that just make you want to give up on everything?"

"I'm here, aren't I? My dad gave me hell as I grew up, but I'm here. Standing on two feet. Here's the thing, Santana, you know that saying about life being too short?" When Santana nodded, she continued, "And do you know that saying about life being the longest thing ever?" Santana nodded again. "They're both bullshit. Life is what you make it—and it can't be reduced to time, because that defeats the purpose of everything. Once you realize the world is indifferent to everything, you realize that means it _also _does not care what you do while you're here. I don't care if you're here for 50 days, 500 days, or anything beyond that—you are here. You have the chance to love and to risk your heart and to _feel _something, so why the hell wouldn't you?"

It was then Santana realized she wanted to learn every little thing about Quinn: her likes, her dislikes; her favorite songs, her favorite books; what the last thing she thinks about before she falls asleep, and the first thing that runs through her mind when she wakes up. Santana became aware of the internal yearning to talk to Quinn about every last conversation topic known to man.

Santana's mind had gone hazy again at Quinn's response, and she cleared her throat as she tried to frame an answer. "That's a very convincing point."

_Could I _be _any lamer?_ _Jesus Christ_.

Quinn grinned. "That was my intention."

"Right," Santana agreed as she became aware of her surroundings again, "I hate to rain on this lovely parade of feelings and emotions, but I'm pretty sure we've been standing in this same exact spot for an hour."

"Yeah, we can probably go any time now," Quinn said with a smile.

They started walking again, following the path that led them back to the front entrance of the zoo; Santana hadn't realized they had seen the zoo in its entirety, and suddenly panicked, not wanting the day with Quinn to end. She didn't know how to voice that thought, though, and kept quiet.

As they reached the parking lot, Quinn sighed and turned to face Santana.

"So, I don't really want to go home just yet. And you have proven twice that you're very good company to keep around. Do you want to do something else? Or have you seen and heard enough of me today?" Quinn asked, grinning.

"Not possible," Santana answered automatically, and she felt her cheeks heat up again as she realized what she said. Quinn ducked her head, seemingly in shyness, and fidgeted with her hands. "Yes," Santana went on, "I want to do something else. What did you have in mind?" The insinuation of the words registered with Santana as she saw Quinn's eyes light up with excitement.

"Do you trust me?"


	3. Will Fyodor Dostoevsky Excuse Me?

Wow, I am so, so, SO sorry about the long wait! The end of my semester just wrapped up and there was a lot going on at once...I had to try and be responsible for a little bit! Anyways, now that it is OFFICIALLY summer, hopefully updates will be more frequent. Thank you so much to all of the reviews, favorites, and follows! I appreciate it more than you all know.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Will Fyodor Dostoevsky Excuse Me When I Kill You?**

Quinn started walking away before Santana could even give her an answer.

"Well?" Quinn called over her shoulder to Santana. "Are you coming or not?"

As she willed herself to not think about the potential sexual innuendos of the comment, Santana uprooted her feet from the pavement with a shake of her head and quickly strode after Quinn.

"Last time I trusted you we ended up here at the zoo," Santana reminded her, falling in step beside the blonde.

"Exactly," Quinn agreed. "So you know I won't steer you wrong." She flashed a grin at Santana.

"Fine," Santana grumbled in response. Secretly, she had no worries about Quinn or where the girl was taking her. If it turned out to be anything like the zoo, Santana couldn't complain even in the slightest.

Quinn led her across the parking lot of the zoo and to a sleek, black Mustang Charger. Santana whistled, impressed.

"Wow. If we weren't friends before, we definitely are now," Santana joked as she gave a longing glance at the car.

"I'm not sure if I should be insulted or flattered," Quinn replied with a smile.

"Flattered," Santana told her, nodding. "Definitely flattered."

"You really are the charmer," Quinn said, coaxing a faint blush to tinge Santana's cheeks. "It's not my car, though. It's my dad's."

"Of course it is," Santana pronounced as she opened the car door and slid into the passenger's seat. "Hey, speaking of your father and his supremacy over you, where's your bodyguard man? The big guy in the monkey-suit from the museum last week?"

"Oh, Rob?" Quinn responded, and she turned the car on. "He's actually not my bodyguard. He's my driver."

"You have a _driver_?" Santana asked.

"Yes, but he was designated as such by my father, so his first and foremost job is to make sure I don't do anything my dad wouldn't approve of," Quinn explained.

"Okay then, how did you manage to escape your driver-slash-chaperone's watchful eye?"

"Over the years Rob and I have bonded over a mutual hatred of my father," Quinn stated as she began to back out of the parking space. "He's seen the sides of my dad which are only usually especially reserved for me, so he knows what kind of person my dad really is. We have this deal where, upon my request, Rob is willing to let me go and do my own thing, as long as I don't do anything stupid or reckless, and my dad doesn't need to know a thing."

"Well, hot damn, Fabray! You're kind of a rebel," Santana observed, and Quinn smiled sheepishly. "Do you ever bend the rules of this agreement?"

"No," Quinn admitted. "Never. I don't want to know what my father would do to me if he knew I was off and about without supervision. Not to mention Rob would get fired in an instant, and he's a good guy—I wouldn't want to be the reason for that."

"A rebel with good morals," Santana remarked. "I wasn't aware that kind of person exists."

"The world doesn't have nearly enough surprise in it—I'm happy to contribute," Quinn said, smiling.

An easy silence descended upon the car as both girls got lost in their thoughts. Santana still had no clue where Quinn was taking her or when they were even going to get there, but she had long since thrown caution to the wind.

Twenty minutes later Santana finally noticed Quinn giving her sidelong glances every so often; they were fleeting and brief, but the hazel eyes bore into the side of Santana's head as she stared out the windshield.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" she asked eventually.

"You seem like you're thinking in depth about something," Quinn told her.

"So why didn't you just ask me about it?"

Quinn shrugged. "I figured you would willingly start talking if you felt the desire to discuss whatever's going through your mind."

"I'm thinking about what we talked about earlier," Santana said as she turned to look out the window. She _had _wanted to say something, but didn't want to dump her thoughts all on Quinn.

"Anything specific?"

"Well," Santana began, and faced back towards Quinn, "I now realize how lame I made my life sound, and how lame my life actually _is_."

"What do you mean?" Quinn inquired.

"Right now, I'm making my living by singing to strangers as I wait on them hand and foot," Santana clarified. "It's not exactly a glamorous lifestyle."

"Okay, but so what?" Quinn replied. Her eyes flicked to Santana's face for a second before returning to the road ahead.

"What do you mean 'so what?'" Santana returned. "I told you I'm only able to pay rent because I sing to people I don't even know almost every single day, while catering to their every dining need. You don't see _anything_ wrong with that?"

"Not really," Quinn said easily. She looked quickly at Santana again and saw a bewildered expression. "You're nineteen, Santana," Quinn continued in explanation. "You're not supposed to have your life figured out at nineteen. It's not like you plan on being a singing waitress your entire life, right?"

"No, of course not."

"Precisely," Quinn responded in affirmation. "The future is yours for the taking. And you said so yourself a little while ago, you know New York is where you're supposed to be in order to become successful."

"I guess you're right," Santana allowed, sighing.

"Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything?" Quinn asked.

"It doesn't matter," Santana deadpanned, shaking her head. She didn't even bother trying to figure out how Quinn knew the whole truth wasn't being told—the girl seemed to have some sixth sense that possessed the capability to detect concealed and hidden things.

"Santana, come on, you know you can tell me-"

"Quinn, please," Santana interrupted in a soft, imploring voice, "another time." She didn't want to delve any deeper into her internal struggles and worries at the moment.

Quinn paused for a second before answering. "Okay," she surrendered. "You're implying that this isn't the last time we're going to hang out, so I will respect your wishes." Santana couldn't help the grin that spread across her face.

"Are you going to tell me where you're taking me?" Santana asked, changing the subject.

"No," Quinn said as she threw a wink at Santana. "We're only five minutes away, anyway, so you'll find out soon enough."

"And should I be concerned?"

"Only if you don't have very good balance," Quinn replied.

"Only if I don't have—excuse me?" Santana questioned. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, you will have to be patient and wait and see."

Santana huffed in response and crossed her arms, realizing Quinn's lips were tightly shut on the matter and would stay that way for the short remainder of the drive.

Surely enough, five minutes later Quinn turned the car off the road and into the parking lot of a large building. Blue neon lights flashed the title of the place: DUFFY'S ROLLER RINK, and Santana swiveled her head to gawk at Quinn.

"I sincerely hope you're joking," Santana told her, and Quinn smirked.

"Oh, I assure you, I am not joking." The smirk turned into a bright, cheeky grin.

"I am not going rollerblading," Santana declared as she shook her head to underline her point.

"Roller _skating, _actually. And feel free to stay in the car," Quinn said flippantly, pulling into a parking space and cutting the engine. "But you're going to miss all the fun."

"I highly doubt it," Santana countered, then narrowed her eyes. "Why roller skating, anyway?"

Quinn looked at her as if she couldn't believe the question. "_Because_, it's-"

"Just as arbitrary as anything else," Santana finished for her through a sigh while answering her own question. "I should have guessed."

"Ah," Quinn commented, "so you _were _listening."

"Don't be stupid, of course I was listening."

"Well, not everyone is as good a listener as you apparently are, so forgive me for having my potential doubts," Quinn said.

"You are forgiven," Santana assured her. "And, since I am _such_ a forgiving person, I think that should excuse me from partaking in roller skating."

"You're forgiving _and _funny then," Quinn remarked. "Because you are not getting out of this. Let's go." She flung open the door and gracefully slid out of the car. A second later, when Santana acknowledged the fact she really wasn't getting out of roller skating, she scrambled after Quinn.

"And you call me persistent," Santana mumbled as she caught up with Quinn.

"You are persistent, Santana," Quinn reminded her. "Or, at least, you were at the museum last week."

"But you're being, like, one hundred times more persistent than I was," Santana said, sounding as though Quinn's determination caused her great distress.

"Okay, fine, I'll dial it back a notch," Quinn responded in a tone that was weighed down with good-natured teasing.

"That's all I ask," Santana replied with a satisfied grin.

They reached the door to the roller rink and Quinn pulled it open, stepping aside to let Santana go in first.

"Such a gentlemen," Santana joked as she walked past the blonde.

"Always," Quinn agreed with a firm nod.

Santana was met with the smell of popcorn and the sound of 80s dance music blaring out of the speakers around the whole place. The place was packed: there were countless people in the middle of the rink skating in circles, and even more filled the area round the skating floor, waiting in line for concessions or sitting on benches as they put on their skates.

Quinn led Santana wordlessly to the skate rental counter. The teenage boy working looked like he was bored out of his mind and his voice was monotonous when he asked the girls what size skates they needed. Even his pace was slow as he strolled to the back room to retrieve the correct sizes, taking a lot longer than probably necessary.

When Quinn and Santana finally had their skates, they walked over to a nearby bench to put on their skates. Santana was still wary about the entire thing, and muttered under her breath as she sat down next to Quinn.

"Quinn, this is ridiculous," Santana whined audibly. "I'm going to make a fool out of myself."

"No you won't," Quinn dismissed without so much as looking at Santana.

"Yes," Santana implored. "Yes, I will."

"You know," Quinn started as she finished lacing up her skates and sat up straight to face Santana, "if you think complaining will get you out of it, you're very wrong. Fyodor Dostoevsky once wrote, 'Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.'"

"And will Fyodor Dostoevsky excuse me when I kill you?" Santana quipped. "Because my pain and suffering are going to result in me running you over on these roller-skates and crushing you to death."

"You've never been roller skating?"

"Once," Santana told her. "It was sophomore year in high school; as a glee club, we were kind of homeless for a little while, and our teacher thought it was a wise idea to try and find us a home at the local roller-rink. Unsurprisingly, it didn't go well. All everyone could focus on was roller skating and having fun, not song choices and choreography."

"You were in glee club?" Quinn asked as her lips pulled up into a smile.

"Please," Santana scoffed. "You are currently looking at a member of the 2012 National Show Choir Champion glee club. You're basically in the presence of royalty, my friend."

"Ohh," Quinn said excitedly. "Should I ask for your autograph now or wait to see if you do actually kill me? Because I'm not sure I'll want it if that happens."

"Yeah, yeah, you're so funny," Santana replied with a roll of her eyes. "Whatever."

"I'm sorry, I just never would have thought you would've been in glee club."

"Stick around, Fabray. There's a lot you don't know about me," Santana said, and winked at Quinn.

"Alright, Queen of Glee Club, let's go," Quinn announced as she stood up from the bench and balanced easily on her roller skates. "We didn't come here to sit down the whole time."

"I think me staying here and sitting would be a lot safer for everyone in the vicinity," Santana told her truthfully.

"Come on, Lopez!" Quinn hit Santana on the shoulder with the back of her hand. "You were a cheerleader, for God's sake! I know you have skills and coordination somewhere in there."

"Fine," Santana muttered. "But if I fall and embarrass myself it's on your conscience."

"How about I promise to catch you if you do end up falling?"

Santana glanced up to look at Quinn; the hazel eyes were staring at her fixedly, and they held a burning, blazing intensity in them. A grin was stretched across Quinn's lips as she waited patiently for Santana to respond.

"I'm holding you to that," Santana stated after a moment.

"Then I promise to catch you if you fall," Quinn repeated with conviction. "Now let's go."

Santana scrambled to her feet and gained her balance; once comfortable, she followed Quinn out onto the hardwood floor. As she pushed one leg in front of the other, gliding along next to Quinn, Santana felt all of the apprehension drain from her and excitement and sheer joy take its place. Her natural athleticism kicked in, and soon she and Quinn were racing around the rink, weaving in and out of all the people. Fits of giggles and laughs consumed them both at some point through the night, and they were forced to concentrate more so on what they were doing and where they were going as a result.

A while later, Quinn skated up next to Santana and lightly bumped her with a hip to throw Santana off her course, sending Santana into the wall.

"What the hell, Fabray?" Santana exclaimed while she tried to regain her footing and balanced. "That's cheating!"

Quinn didn't even stop roller skating as she threw a mischievous wink and grin over her shoulder towards Santana. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you there!"

"Oh, okay, I see how it's going to be," Santana said with a nod. "You're _so _dead." She set off after Quinn as fast as she could go and caught up to the blonde within seconds.

Santana got too close, though, when she approached Quinn, and their skates got tangled up in one another, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Quinn softened the blow for Santana, as the latter fell on top of the blonde and landed with her head on Quinn's stomach.

Santana quickly became aware of her close proximity of Quinn; her senses were suddenly overtaken by the scent of Quinn: the sweet smell of lavender and lilac clouded Santana's mind, and she swiftly sat up to look at Quinn.

"Damn, that did not go as planned," Santana remarked as she rubbed at the pain in her elbow.

Quinn started giggling as she sat up, too, but promptly stopped and winced. "Ah," she said, and reached up to hold her shoulder, "I may or may not have broken my collarbone."

Now that she had straightened up, Quinn was close enough for Santana to feel her breath brush across her face. Their lips were within inches of each other, and Santana felt the sudden impulse to lean over and crash them together. She bit her lip to distract herself from the thoughts and let out a small chuckle.

"Psh," she scoffed, "you're fine. Besides, what happened to catching me if I fall?"

Quinn knit her eyebrows together. "Oh, yeah. Whoops."

"'_Whoops_?" Santana repeated incredulously. "You let me hit the ground—_hard_, by the way—while breaking a promise to catch me in the process, and all you can say is 'Whoops'?"

"Hey," Quinn defended, "you can't blame this all on me. You're supposed to give me a heads up or something when you're about to fall!" She reached over with her pain-free arm and shoved Santana in the shoulder. "Plus, you took me down with you!"

"Okay, okay. We're both at fault here. Let's just leave it at that."

"Deal," Quinn settled. She carefully stood up again and extended a helpful hand to Santana, who took it gratefully as she tried to ignore the spark that shot up her arm at Quinn's touch.

"Thanks."

"I think that's enough roller skating for one night."

"I think that's enough roller skating for a _lifetime_," Santana corrected Quinn with a grimace.

"No one even noticed our little accident," Quinn insisted, gesturing around them where people of all ages continued to skate seemingly unaware of the two girls' collision and fall.

"And next time we might not be so lucky," Santana pointed out, and Quinn rolled her eyes.

"You worry too much, Lopez."

"Watch it now," Santana warned. "I'm not above sending you to the floor again."

"Whatever," Quinn snorted. "Come on, let's get out of here."

* * *

"You don't seem like the daughter of a governor."

Quinn cocked her head to the side and looked curiously at Santana. "How do you mean?"

They sat on a bench in the middle of Central Park; after leaving the roller rink they had decided, yet again, to put off going home and Quinn ended up driving aimlessly until she ended up in Manhattan. Quinn had parked the car and they made their way to the park, not feeling the need to say anything while walking.

It was unusually warm for the middle of March, and even though it was closing in on midnight there was a great deal of people still ambling through the park.

"Well," Santana started, "you're so…carefree and easygoing."

"And those aren't qualities you normally associate with the daughter of a governor?" Quinn asked, and even through the dark Santana could see her eyes twinkling brightly.

"Not really," Santana told her. "Don't get me wrong, they're very good qualities to possess. It's just, usually anyone even related to politics is insufferably uptight and boring."

Quinn let out a small laugh and nodded. "I get that. But like I said at the museum, I am not my father. I'm not my mother either."

"Would it be the worst thing if you were?" Santana inquired interestedly. She knew Quinn's mother wasn't the shining light in her youngest daughter's life, but the woman's biggest problems seemed to be the need for attention and complacency—and Santana could think of worse things in life. Quinn's father, for example.

"Yes," Quinn answered without thought. "It would be the worst thing if I was like either of them. What I told you earlier at the zoo about them? I wasn't exaggerating. Look, my parents are power-hungry and obsessed with upholding and maintaining their reputation—that's literally all they care about. I don't want to be like that. I _never_ want to be like that."

Santana's eyes flickered across the entirety of Quinn's face: her eyes held a gentleness within them, though they were deep pools of hazel, giving off the sense they had seen a lot in their lifetime, but not nearly everything they wanted to see. The sides of her lips were curved up slightly, and it made Quinn look like she was smiling faintly at all times. Her features were soft and smooth, and Santana couldn't comprehend how they hadn't hardened and become cold over time given everything Quinn was put through.

"How did you manage that, by the way?" Santana wondered after a moment. "Not being like either of them, I mean. How did that happen?"

"I don't know," Quinn admitted. "Growing up I never really gave much thought to anything. I just assumed all kids' parents were pretty much horrible and absent from their lives because that's all I ever knew. Obviously I eventually learned that's not the case, and I started to resent my mom and dad for it. I remember when I was around thirteen years old, there was this writing workshop offered at my school; it wasn't fancy or anything—it was run by the English teachers, but I wanted to go to it so badly. I brought it up to my parents and the only thing my dad said was 'Your mother and I raised you better than to use that already screwed up brain of yours for making up stories, lies, and fantasies for a living. So you can just forget about it.' That was the end of _that_ conversation."

"And your mom?"

"Went right along with my dad," Quinn confirmed what Santana was thinking. "Anyway, my point is, when that happened, I realized that, yeah, my parents went around acting like they deserved some sort of award, but with every fake smile and grin they threw at me in public to keep up appearances, they were slowly killing me. They were molding me into what _they _wanted me to be. I grew up trying to do anything and everything I could to please them and make them proud, but when my dad told me to forget about the writing workshop, I knew it didn't matter what I did; with writing, I had finally found something I so thoroughly enjoyed, and my parents didn't even give a damn. They didn't even _pretend _to give a damn. I could become president of the United States, and my dad would still criticize how I did so. So, that was the day I promised myself I would never turn into either my dad or my mom."

"Damn," Santana said as she let out a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Quinn. That sucks. No one deserves that."

"You don't have to apologize, Santana," Quinn responded in a soft voice. "Which, speaking of, I think I've said too many times in the lone week we have known each other."

"I don't really know what else to say," Santana replied. "Although, I am very glad you've decided to become your own person—your own person, mind you, whom I very much like."

"Oh, is that so?" Quinn asked with a glint in her eye.

"Yes," Santana said firmly.

"Well, thank you," Quinn told her sincerely.

The silence that had become so comfortable and easy in the short time since Santana and Quinn had met once again surrounded them. Quinn tapped her fingers on the wood slats of the bench as she stared around at passersby and Santana had to resist the urge of reaching over and entwining their hands.

_Pull it together, Lopez, Jesus Christ. _

"So, a writer, huh?" Santana asked after a few minutes slid by in the silence, mostly as a diversion from the thoughts about Quinn's fingers and lips floating through her head now. "Is that why you made that comment earlier about never being a world-renowned author?"

"Yeah," Quinn answered somewhat sheepishly. "Go on, make fun like everyone else does. Tell me how I'm destined for failure, or how I'm never going to have any money. I've learned to handle it by now."

"No!" Santana returned quickly. "No, that's not what I was thinking at all."

"You don't think it's an absurd pipedream?"

"I think if it's really what you want to do with your life, then it's just as valid as any other dream you may have," Santana stated.

"You know, that's the first time someone hasn't scoffed and ridiculed me when I told them I was interested in writing. Everyone else has thought me completely insane," Quinn said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, but I'm not everyone else," Santana reminded her with a smirk.

"That you are not," Quinn murmured in agreement.

"Are we talking being a novelist here or what?" Santana continued. She could picture Quinn as a writer; the girl so obviously had a way with words, and she seemed to look at the world through a different lens than most people.

"Not necessarily," Quinn said. "I'd be perfectly happy with journalism or anything along those lines, too. Though, that does require a degree, so college might be in the picture whether I like it or not."

"You would go to school, even though you essentially despise it, _just _so you could become a journalist?"

Quinn shrugged in response. "It would be worth it in the long run of things. But I don't know. I guess I'll just wait and see what the future has in store for me."

"How can you be so relaxed about those kinds of things?" Santana asked in wonderment. "I mean, how can you just sit back and patiently wait for whatever's coming? Doesn't it bother you or worry you in the slightest that you have no clue what's going to happen?"

"Worrying is a wasted emotion in my opinion. If you don't know what's going to happen you're not going to be able to change it, so what's the point? I'm more about living in the moment; everyone's so busy watching and waiting to see what lies ahead, no one takes time to appreciate and enjoy where they are."

"You make it sound so simple."

"Oh, it's the farthest thing from simple, Santana," Quinn remarked with a small smile. "Nothing in life is simple. Every day we make these random, arbitrary choices and decisions—as I've already said to you—based on our preferences and what we know; we think we know what we're doing, we think we have the whole thing figured out, but at the end of the day? Everyone is just hoping and praying that what they decided on was the right thing to do or say."

"So, not worrying is…" Santana urged.

"My daily decision," Quinn confirmed. "I have no idea if it's right or wrong, but it works for me. And, honestly, that's all that matters."

"How do you do that?" Santana inquired as she stared intently at Quinn.

"Do what?"

"Have an answer for everything," Santana explained. "You _do_ seem like you have everything figured out in life. It's…different." She paused for a second. "But, like, different in a really good kind of way," she added quickly, prompting a giggle from Quinn.

"I appreciate that vote of confidence," Quinn responded, "but I have nothing figured out. Like everyone else, I'm just doing the best I can with what I have."

"Well, your best seems pretty superior to everyone else's," Santana told her honestly.

"You're full of compliments tonight, aren't you?"

"Only because it's the truth."

"And again, I thank you," Quinn answered. "However, I assure you my life is nowhere near figured out. I'm not even sure that's completely possible, to be honest."

Santana processed her words for a moment. "Elaborate, please."

"I'm not convinced anyone ever has their life _totally _figured out. Sure, we might get the job we've always thought was just a fantasy, or move to the city we loved since we were kids, but people always want something more. Something else, something different. People aren't constant—they are not consistent. We go to bed wanting one thing, and wake up the next day wishing for something completely different; we say we hate the rain, but as soon as it starts we whip out an umbrella; we say to treat others the way we want to be treated, but we turn around and do damage to people's self-esteems simply because we _can_; we wish others all of the success in the world, but once they get it we hate them for it; and we say we're so eager to fall in love and find our soulmates, but any time commitment begins to loom on the horizon we run as fast as we can. People never really know what they want, even if they have everything they _thought_ they wanted, because people are not constant."

"I guess I've never thought about it like that," Santana commented.

"I've spent a lot of my life thinking about the world around me in an attempt to make sense of the hell I've been placed in thanks to my parents," Quinn told her.

"Okay, Oh Wise One," Santana started with a smile, "what do you recommend we do about the problem that is fickleness?"

Quinn tilted her head back and looked up at the dark velvety sky, as though she was searching for an answer among the stars. "I don't know."

"Care to hear my thoughts on the matter?"

"I would love to hear your thoughts," Quinn replied as she turned back to look at Santana with deep, interested eyes.

Santana nodded in acknowledgement. "I think…I think that's just the way life is." She chanced a look at Quinn and grinned when she saw a quirked eyebrow. "I know, I know," she added, "it's not some deep, philosophical answer, but I stand by it. People may not be constant, but change is. So no, you can't predict what a person is going to want, and you can't predict what they're going to change their mind about; you can, however, predict the fact they _will _change their mind. Eventually. That much is certain. If we would loosen our grip on trying to keep things the same all the time, and just kind of go with the flow of life and recognize change is always going to be a part of it, we'd all be better suited to take on whatever comes as us."

Quinn looked at Santana with the faintest trace of a smile on her lips; she gave no response, but her eyes never wavered from Santana's face, which was slightly veiled by the shadows and darkness of the night.

"What?" Santana asked after a minute went by and Quinn still hadn't said anything. "Was that answer not up to your 'I could kick it with the big leaguers of intellectual thought because I got accepted to Yale' standards?"

Quinn grinned and shook her head vigorously. "No, actually. I was thinking the exact opposite of that. For someone who claims to not have their life put together, you sure seem to have a good idea of the world we live in."

"I'm simply doing the best I can with what I have," Santana quoted Quinn from earlier, grinning widely.

"In other words," Quinn said as she glanced back up at the sky, "we're works in progress."

Santana stared at her for a moment before replying; the watery moonlight from overhead made Quinn's skin look even paler than usual, and it cast a soft, white light over the blonde hair. Once again, Santana fought off the incredibly strong urge to lean over and close the distance between their lips.

"Umm…" she mumbled, pulling her thoughts back together, "yeah. Works in progress. Yeah. I like that."

"Is a week too short to know a person and have in depth conversations with them about life?" Quinn's eyes never left the sky, and Santana wondered if it was a rhetorical question or if Quinn was genuinely seeking an answer. "Because," Quinn went on, "that's what is going on here."

Deciding the girl did want a response, Santana considered the question. "If you ask me, a week isn't too short at all. I don't think the depth of the conversation can be based on the length of time you've known a person."

"What can it be based on, then?" The hazel eyes locked with Santana's, causing her heart rate to pick up its pace.

"The initial connection you have with the person?" Santana suggested. "Some people you meet and right away you can tell you aren't able to have serious conversations with them; others people, though, you meet and immediately you know you could spend hours talking to them about anything and everything and never get bored."

_You_, Santana thought to herself but directed at Quinn mentally, covertly hoping Quinn would pick up on what she was implying. _I'm talking about you_.

"Like us." Quinn didn't pose it as a question; instead, she made it sound like it was the most obvious and natural thing in the world as she kept her gaze upwards.

Santana didn't even try to stop the grin that stretched across her face. "Yeah," she agreed while trying to keep her breathing steady and her voice even. "Like us."

Quinn rolled her head back to stare at Santana, and Santana could've sworn she saw something flicker in the depths of them. Lust. Longing, maybe. But it was gone in an instant and made Santana second guess if she had even seen something in the first place.

"You don't meet people like that often," Quinn stated softly. "People who you can exhaust every conversation topic with and never lose interest."

"No," Santana said in affirmation. "You don't. They're pretty rare, those kind of people."

"Well then," Quinn began as she suddenly stood up, "I guess I'll just have to keep you around."

Santana felt her breath catch in her throat and nodded jerkily. "That sounds like a good plan." Quinn grinned in response.

"Alright, it has now passed midnight and I was supposed to be home almost two hours ago," she announced. "So how about I take you home?"

"You're two hours late?" Santana asked as she stood up and she and Quinn began making their way back to the car.

"Yes," Quinn answered. "It's fine, though. I'll just sneak in my bedroom window."

"Why do I feel like you've done that before?"

"Because I _have _done it before," Quinn told Santana with a playful grin. "Lots of times, actually."

"You've got more guts than I would have guessed, Fabray," Santana said, impressed.

"Thank you," Quinn responded with a satisfied nod. "Hey, one more thing." She gave Santana a sideways glance; when she received a raised eyebrow as encouragement, she went on, "So, I am well aware we've only been friends for one week. Meaning that I am _also _well aware that it may be too earlier in our friendship to ask this of you, but next week my dad's hosting this brunch for his campaign. All of the other local political figures will be there, and it's supposedly a pretty big deal for him." Santana kept walking, waiting for Quinn to arrive at her point. "My question to you," the blonde continued, "is would you maybe want to come? It's lame, trust me I know, but I'm going to need someone to help me get through the torture of it all, and you'd get free food out of it, so…"

Santana grinned amusedly at Quinn; the fact Quinn had considered her worthy of Russell Fabray's brunch filled Santana with so much elation and joy she thought she was going to explode.

"So, basically, you just want me to experience the torture with you?" Santana inquired, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

"Actually, I'm just using it as an excuse to see you again," Quinn replied smoothly. She grinned at Santana and there it was again: the fleeting flash of something unidentifiable in her eyes.

Santana cleared her throat before answering; her heart was pounding in her chest and she was grinning like an idiot. "Ah, you should have started with that."

"You'll come then?"

"Yeah, I'll come," Santana told Quinn, eliciting a wide smile from the blonde. "On one condition, though."

Quinn's eyebrows raised in surprise. "What's that?"

"After this brunch, no more zoos and no more roller skating. It's my turn to decide what we do together."

Quinn's smile grew bigger. "You've got yourself a deal."


End file.
